Lovers At A Great Divide
by CalliopeSpeaks88
Summary: I have decided to turn my one-shots about Hawke and Fenris into a story. These chapters will be drabbles about their seperation and their relationship etc. Hope you all enjoy it.
1. Scarred

* I do not own Dragon Age. All characters and story belong to Bioware. The following is my simple offering to the franchise. Also, if you like this story then please read _**The Ballads of Lady Hawke and The Fenris Wolf**_. It is the prequel to this series.

To the fans who were with this story from the beginning: _**Lovers At A Great Divide**_ is getting a major face lift. I'm adding more content to the chapters I have already posted, then plan on posting new entries into my Fenris/Hawke saga. Again, your reviews are highly appreciated. Thank you all for your patience, support and dedication to this tale. I appreciate it greatly.

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><p>She found herself wandering the dank deserted hallways of one of her greatest losses and biggest regrets. <em>Mother, I should<em> _have come to you sooner. I failed you,_ thought Hawke. The dispirited daughter sighed heavily, releasing the air within her lungs slowly. So slowly it burned. Her throat felt acrid. Dry. Shakily, Hawke brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, only to be dumbfounded by the wetness she felt there. She had unconsciously been weeping. Hadn't she _already_ shed an ocean's worth of tears? How could one person possibly carry so much liquid?

_I guess I must be made of water. _Amused by this revelation, Agnes began to chuckle. Her sobs quickly morphing into stilted laughter. Funny how ones life can implode on one in an instant. Once she had a father, a house, an easy existence in a small town with her family and the next, nothing. Zilch. Father became ill, dies. Hawke, reeling from the sudden absence of her beloved Papa has no time to grieve. She's thrust into the role of the head of household. She had no other choice. Dearest mother had become hysterical in her sorrow, doing nothing but crying all day.

Fast forward three years, and the dark spawn attack Lothering in a flurry of gratuitous violence. Aggie rounds up her family, as the screams of her neighbors terrify her ears. With their home set ablaze the Hawke clan flees. Hoards overtake them. A mighty Blighted troll easily flanks Hawke's exhausted form. Too weary to out maneuver the creature, Agnes shuts her eyes tight against the troll's final blow. _It never arrives._ Her sister, Bethany, erects an Arcane shield around her. Before Hawke can react, the gruesome monster throws her sister over a hundred feet from where Beth had stood. Hawke cries out in agony, as her sister's skull cracks unforgivingly: Brain matter saturating the ground around Bethany's fresh corpse.

One year later, we find the surviving members of the Hawke family once more rebuilding their lives. Without much fortune, Agnes and Carver do odd jobs around Kirkwall to keep themselves afloat, and to ensure their mother is comfortable. Hurting for gold, Hawke decides to follow Varric into the Deep Roads. His brother, Bertrand, has set up an expedition to unearth more Dwarvin artifacts. Carver, not wanting to be left behind, ingratiates himself into Hawk's scouting party. "It can't be helped sis," Carver gloated. " I am of age. You may deny me this privilege, but mark my words: I will go _despite_ being in your company or not." What a mistake that was. . . .

Two weeks into the excursion and the adventuring went south. Maker help them! Dark spawn were met at every turn. The monsters swarming in ghastly configurations, seeming to crawl out from the rock to destroy them. In the commotion, Carver fell. One of those disgusting zombies bit him, infecting little brother with the Blight. The Grey Wardens owned Carv's soul now. The youth's very existence no longer offering any personal meaning for him. _Because of me, Carver is a man possessed by a creed he never wished to join, and an order he never cared to fight for. _Flash forward to the present, three years after her most recent tragedy, and Hawke's mother lies dead. A victim of blood magic.

Sitting amongst the dirt and filth of Low Town, Hawk traces the outline of where her mother had collapsed. This was the spot Aggie had held her, well, what was _left _of her. The mage almost wretches at the memory. That murderous cock-scum Quentin had transformed Leandra Amell into a badly sown patchwork of body parts. The skin was of all different hues, mainly of an opaque white color and paper thin. So paper thin that the translucency of the flesh enabled Hawke to see the blood flow through the bulging veins. Stitches ran in circles up and down and around the length of her mother's "new" body. Some barely closed up, dripping ichors onto the floor. Oh, and the smell! Maker the **smell**! Mama no longer permeated the scent of daffodils and honey, but of decay. The only true recognizable feature was her mother's eyes. Through them, Hawke could see her parent's soul.

Shivering, Agnes hugged herself tightly. If only she had been more attentive! Listened to the details of her mother's day to day activities, as opposed to tuning her out. Hawke sighed. She supposed she hadn't ever truly forgiven her mother for abdicating the role of patriarch, and thrusting it onto her. Most of Aggie's youth had been stolen away, thanks to her mother's depression. Now, it was too late for the young woman to ever forge any real relationship with her. As Leandra used to say Aggie was her father's daughter, while the littlest ones (Bethany and Carver) were her living shadows. Never Hawke. Never the eldest one. . . .

"Why didn't I noticed those damned lilies," Hawke shouted. Her outburst echoed off of the ceiling beams in turbulent ferocity, scaring nearby vermin back into their holes. Angry with herself, Hawke let out an ear splitting shriek of frustration. It all was _too _much. Too much. Fists clenched, the mage summoned the forces of nature to do her bidding. She wanted to destroy this filthy place; obliterate it from existence. In a cacophony of noise and color and earth and fire and ice what little furniture remained of Quentin's was decimated.

Amid the wreckage of what once was a madman's dwelling, Hawke hummed with electricity. The magic within her aching with insatiable veracity. She watched it dance all purple and cackling atop her skin; she was mesmerized by the power of it. Abruptly, _he_ flashed before her memory. There was Fenris before her, his face contorting in pure revulsion. _Truly what has magic touched that it didn't spoil? _Hawke frowned, shaking. She tried fruitlessly to dislodge the hated mantra from her brain, but to no avail. Fen's words were a discordant bell ringing within her ears. She could no more escape his accusatory question than she could escape the Devil himself.

Biting her lower lip, Agnes felt defeated. Perhaps her gifts weren't gifts at all? Perhaps the sum of her talents could only be classified as a curse. An unseemly canker on mankind; an incurable epidemic. For it was spell craft which had twisted her mother into an unrecognizable corpse bride. Had been magic, which had acted as the catalyst for one bereaved husband's plummet into insanity. Hell, it was no wonder Carver resented her supernatural abilities. It decimated joy. Caused their family to adopt the lifestyles of nomads. Constantly they were on the move, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the chantry. The craft had ruled their lives entirely.

And what of Anders? He was what Fenris liked to can an "abomination." What the templar order considered a maleficarum: A demonically possessed mage. _But, it's not as simple as all that, is it? Andy _is_ an honorable man, still very much in control of his own actions. And it's not as if he shares himself with a _demon_, but with Justice. _Anders had met the spirit during a mission for the Grey Wardens. Justice was a righteous ghost of the Fade; his purpose was to aid humanity, not pervert it. At some point during their friendship, however, Justice needed a new host to survive. He came to Anders, requested his help, and Anders had obliged. But now. . . now Justice mutated into Vengeance, and _Vengeance _would do whatever _It_ felt necessary to get the "ethical" outcome _It _required. Any innocent lives lost during Vengeance's escapades were considered collateral damage to the specter. It would seem that, no matter where Hawke turned, sorcery only led her down twisted paths.

In despair, Hawke sunk to her knees. She pulled at her robes, scrutinizing the material for any stains. She felt self-conscious. Unclean. She thought of Gascard DuPries, another fine example of magical corruption. She had naively trusted the Orlesian, thinking him the incensed brother out to avenge his sister's death. _Oh how wrong she had been_. Stupid, stupid girl! All Gascard had wanted was his master's deplorable secrets. _I bet he _knew_ mother would be Quentin's next victim long before the abduction happened. And I just stood there, consoling the git for his awful loss. . . ._

Aggie swallowed hard. She wished she had gutted the creep before he had fled Kirkwall. Perversely, she smiled at the thought of ripping his lean body asunder bit by bloodied bit, making him suffer for hours. That son-of-a-whore would have deserved it too. But, the reality had been this: Hawke had let Gascard go free.

At the time, Agnes felt that by giving the misguided man his freedom, she was keeping her own soul in check. For her won peace of mind, she wanted to be the bigger person and the better mage. By punishing DuPries, Hawke feared she too would sink into the very depravity that both apprentice and master had succumbed to. However, revisiting her mother's torture chamber had reawakened the mage's initial need for retribution. Her mind had shifted; her soul had flipped in favor of violence. Some men were meant to pay for their crimes. She wanted her pound of flesh.

Aggie grimaced, remembering the cheeky look Gascard had given her while saying goodbye. It had been one laced in arrogance and gloating satisfaction. _Maker, what have I unleashed upon the world, _Hawke lamented._ What future horrors will that wretch commit? _And all because of _her _damn "honor." Maker have mercy on her! She had seen the apostate for what he was, a villain, and had let him disappear back into the crowds of the unassuming masses.

It wasn't as if Hawke had believed DuPries' solemn vow to quit sorcery, let alone blood magic. No, the bastard was much too hungry for power. It had shown in his face, had radiated off his person in musky waves. Hawke scoffed at the memory. Repulsed by the thought of Gascard, Agnes clenched her fists in rage. She sat in wrathful contemplation for a good long while. Sat until her knees ached in protest, and her nimble fingers glistened with blood. Aggie had balled her hands too tightly. Opening her hands, Hawke frowned at the deep gouges she discovered there. The wounds were puffy from irritation, not far from infection either.

Without thinking, Hawke beckoned for the soothing hot tendrils of restorative magic to engulf her. In minutes, the inflammation in her palms had receded, leaving only the angry gouges to heal. About to continue her ministrations, Hawke turned to notice a curious rat scurrying towards her. It's tiny black pupils almost seeming accusatory. "I'm hurt! Healing myself isn't a crime," Hawk spat at the animal. The rat squeaked in response then sat it's fat ass in the dirt. "Fine, judge me like everyone else does. Condemn me for my spell weaving, Maker knows I do. . ."

Defeated, Hawke decides to leave Low Town. She gathers up her staff and what other few belongings she had brought with her to Quentin's hideout. Shuffling her feet homeward, Aggie lets her palms buzz in pain, ignoring her abilities for the evening. Her wounds could stay forever fresh if they so chose, their ache mattered little to her. All the forlorn lass wished for really was a bath, her warm bed and a chance to grieve her losses alone. _Alone. _Damn how that word stabbed at Agnes' heart.

If only there were someone she could turn to? A firm lithe body to engulf her, keep her safe from her current nightmares? But, in truth, there was no one. Sure, she had her friends. Her merry men as she often called them. Yet. . .their camaraderie wasn't the comfort the lady found herself starving for. Hawke hungered for a different kind of companionship. . . .

Again, Fenris waltzed into Agnes's thoughts. He stood before her in all his towering glory. Green orbs were slick with need, his arms lacing around her possessively. Those clawed gauntlets of his sending shivers of gooseflesh all over Aggie's exposed skin. Made her clothes feel too stiff against her; made her center flush with damp need.

Hawke could almost feel their lips crashing together in sloppy succession. She remembered how both of them were thirsty with desire. How the pent up tension between them was finally released in touches, tongue and tenderness. Gods, how the heat of his breath had made her quake! The harried whispers of his pleasured sighs prickled at her ears, sending Hawke reeling in climax. Sent her falling off a cliff in ecstasy as he explored her. . .as she prodded him in places she never dreamed before.

Cheeks blushing, the mage cursed beneath her breath. It was shameful how much she missed him. Missed him more than she even missed father, mother or Bethany. She needed him, needed the protection he offered. Needed the love of her dearest wolf. Life was cruel however. Hawke's one-time lover would never be hers again. Fenris could no more love Hawke than she could deny her feelings for him. Too much had happened between them since the night Fen had laid her down, and thrusted himself deep inside her. Far too much.

Collapsing within the confines of her room, Hawke lay still. A parade of fresh tears dampened her pillow case. Wearily, the sorceress buried herself beneath blankets and covers and quilts, trying to hide from the bruising sadness which surrounded her. The only lullaby soothing her to sleep being the dull ache of her puffy palms. It wouldn't be until three months later that Hawke used her magic again, protecting Fenris of all people on the battlefield in a circle of fire. As for her hands? Those would be forever scarred, much like the lady's heart.


	2. Captivated

The events of that night (that gloriously perfect night) kept replaying through Fenris's mind relentlessly. Snapshots of Agnes bare breasted, leaning into him began to elate Fen's senses. He could _almost_ grasp her; feel the pliable softness of her flesh. His lyrium burned cool as more images of Hawke swam into his thoughts. The memories whispering pleasurable pulses down to Fenris's core.

He softly purred, imagining his Aggie kissing him. Those lips of hers, those _delicious_ pillows, had caressed his neck in gentle agony once upon a time. Had sent gooseflesh across his skin as he had sung praises in his ancestral tongue. Oh, and the way she had looked at him! It was such an imploringly _sensual_ look. The kind of gaze that could knock even the most stoic of men senseless.

" Hawke," Fenris moaned as gently a prayer. He clutched the arms of his favorite battered chair. Sweat pooled on his brow, as the ache in his stomach grew ever more profound. These memories were too much. _Too much_. Abruptly, Fen opened his eyes. These vivid recollections, no matter how beautiful, were cruel none the less. As much as Fenris yearned for Hawke, she would no more be _his _woman. Fenris had seen to that.

Maker, how the listless elf wanted to forget her! To erase the taste, touch, smell and sound of her from his mind. To eliminate her essence from his soul; to pretend that a lady such as Hawke had never born. Fenris tried to achieve his desire with drink. Empty bottles of cheap wine and alcohol were strewn about his floor in ludicrous numbers. It almost seemed as if Fen had sampled all that Thedas had to offer in booze. These drinks could never quench the inherent need to forget though. Yes, they _could_ dull Fenris's ability to feel, but **not **his ability to love.

Exhaling wearily, Fenris stood from his seat. The light from the moon blanketed his form, casting a halo of white around his silver hair. How _had _their evening of passion begun? The start of their physical tryst was always a blur to Fenris. He blamed his desire and senses for thwarting him the luxury of this memory. Hazily, he saw himself visit Hawke, his only aim to apologize to her a second time. Thank the mage, again, for forgiving him when he had mistreated her, after she had helped him defeat Hadriana. What he hadn't expected was Aggie to be so damn accepting; her face jovial and open.

_I fell into her friendly stare. Those eyes, _Fenris thought. _Those eyes had been my undoing._ Her tenderness had triggered an urge inside of Fen: a primal _need_ to worship Hawke. Fenris had been intoxicated with the idea of just holding the mage before him. His senses lost, Fenris had Agnes pinned securely against him in a rush of want. _Then I kissed her, all the while staring into those eyes. . . . _

Fenris smiled. Gods, he relished those eyes of hers. There were secrets in those depths that even he knew he may never unlock. Such knowledge equally frustrated and enchanted Fenris. These. . . _these_ were the eyes that could consume you. Cause even the most rigid of souls to willingly lose themselves in their depths. Truly, Aggie had to be the most gorgeous woman in all the land. Everything about her was lovely. Simply lovely. Hawke glowed, her heart making her appear ethereal to passersby. She was (to Fenris) beauty personified.

Hawke. . . . Sweet Hawke. She had offered herself up on a platter for him. Had lain herself naked, giving every ounce of her devotion to Fen with no questions asked. " I should not have left you da'vhenan," Fenris sighed. If only he could be brave enough to face her? Return to the warmth of her safe embrace. . . If only. . . .

Again, the dance they had shared overwhelmed Fenris. It's elegance reducing the gruff loner to tears. It had been honest, a _true_ display of emotions from one beloved to another. It wasn't like the cheap thrills the magisters had sought out. Oh, no. Not he and Aggie. Theirs had been a heavenly joining where two souls mingled. It wasn't the mindless rutting around Fenris had observed in Danarius or Hadriana. That was fucking someone. That was using another person's body to get a tawdry moment of release. _His _Hawke, she had given Fenris a profound gift. Not only had she bequeathed unto him her womanhood, but her vulnerability as well.

Andraste help him, but Fenris squandered his Aggie's heart. The repressed memories that were unlocked after their love making had overpowered the elf. Visions of his mother, slight and tired looking selling herself on dirty streets. Screams. Guttural screams. Screams of her being hurt in another room, his arms around his sister. Danarius smiling. Offers. Offers of food. Offers of protection. Of security. Of gold. He. . .**he** signing _himself _away. Eagerly competing to become. . .become _this _tattooed dog. . . .Then more instances of blood, yelling, and fighting. Nightmare upon nightmare overlapping until Fenris cannot take anymore of its horrors.

It had been excruciating. The moment of their climax ruined, thanks to forgotten pain. These visions, these ruthless visions, had caused his lyrium to boil, bones to quake and muscles to spasm violently. He and Hawke had moved too quickly. Their one instance of joy decimating a future of happiness. Fenris could not (would not) be hers. Not after _this_. He was unworthy. Ugly. Disgusting. So, the wretch had walked away from Hawke. Left his bird reeling alone in her darkened bedroom, cold and shaking.

Yet, Fenris's heart was much too full of Hawke to completely forsake her. He fled, but not before leaving with something, _anything_ of hers. Softly, Fenris crushed his fingers around some red material on his right arm: It was a piece of Hawke's robe. A sash to display Fen's unyielding devotion to Agnes Marian Hawke. A favor to stand the testament of time.

Gulping another glass of chardonnay, Fenris stole a glance out his window. He choked on his beverage, gasping for air. There _she_ was just below his perch. Hawke was walking past his residence, her face puffy from crying. No doubt Agnes was trying to lose herself in the shadows of Kirkwall to ease the pain from losing her mother. Wanting to call out to her, Fen quickly opens his window. His voice ready to yell, " Aggie," but it catches in his throat. Agnes is muttering to herself. He can hear her. The apostate hiccupping, " Better walk faster. Hates me. Hates me. Doesn't want to see me." Then her pace quickens, and she is gone.

Wide eyed, Fenris slouches onto his bed. The hurt of her words lashing his lithe form as violently as any whip or cat of nine tails ever could. _She thinks I hate her. She. . .she ran from the mere _thought_ of my presence. Emma halam. _Sighing, exhaustion overtakes Fenris in a thick blanket of mercy. For now, he will rest. Pitifully, he'll attempt to ignore the sorry state of his life, along with the emptiness of knowing Hawke shunned him. All **his** fault too. She had loved him. Had treated him as an equal when others had scorned him. Fenris wasn't a slave to Hawke, but a man to grow old with. A man to love.

" She was my miracle," Fen wept. The gleam in her eyes all those months ago had all but confirmed it. It was that look that had fully penetrated Fenris. Invaded his hollow heart with light and song. Maker, how she had frozen his blood like ice! Filling his lungs with water, leaving him adrift with emotions, euphoric emotions he had never felt before. The last thoughts which overtook the blade for hire were these, _I will be forever captive_, _and forever spellbound. I am hers. I am hers body and soul. _With this last admission, sleep came followed by dreams of his pretty little mage. She, _his _captive until the arrival of dawn. _She_ his savior, until Fenris once more awoke bound within a cage of loathing and regret. A cage of his own making; a cage to keep them apart.

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><p><strong>Elvish Phrases: <strong>

**Emma** (_EM-mah_): I am.

**Halam** (_hah-LAHM_): the end, finished.

**Emma Halam**: I am finished.

**Da'vhenan **(_dah-VEY-nahn_): Little heart


	3. Absence

Empty home. Emptier than before. The hallways dustier. No slight footfalls to disturb the dirt. No open windows to welcome any breezes. Only the dark. The twisted dark. The dark of longing; the darkness of a lonely mind. Fenris's apartment could very well be a mausoleum for all its charm. The elf never used to mind his dwelling's sorry state. The coldness suited him. This was Danarius' rundown estate after all. Not his. Who cared if it was a filthy foreboding mess? Then Fenris had become close to Hawke.

Once a camaraderie had been established between them, Fen soon discovered that he couldn't keep the affable Aggie away. The mage would visit him almost every day. His front door would slam and the sounds of her gentle strides would echo off of the manor walls. Whether the elf liked to admit it or not, his sweet visitor elicited a lightness in his chest and in his gait. Agnes had a talent for making Fenris smile. He could feel whole around her.

Such happy times those had been. Hours whittled away by conversation, drink or by Hawke patiently teaching Fenris his letters. His letters. . .reading. . . . Fenris had almost given up on the prospect of furthering his education. Without Hawke around to tutor him, the elf had despaired for a time. However, the thought of disappointing Aggie any further kept the tired student trudging on without his adept mentor. Dutifully, Fenris would lay out all of his workbooks, utensils and extra sheets of parchment to study. He _had _to excel in this. _Had_ to. He would not fail her again.

At least three hours a day he trudged along, painstakingly rewriting and pronouncing the alphabet. Fenris even had some stories to read. Children's books, but books nonetheless. He'd stumble over sentences repeatedly, causing his tongue to convulse in his unsuccessful attempts at recitation. Yet, the scholar persevered, if only for the sake of the lady he loved. The lessons also ended in a very routine manner for Fenris: The swordsman would chuck all of his study materials across the room. The bitterness of missing Hawke would prevail over dedication after awhile. It couldn't be helped really. He yearned for her, and reading together had always been Fenris's special time with Hawke.

Liquor, his liquid gold would effortlessly rescue him. It replaced any intelligent thought. It was better this way. Better to be drunk than to be cognizant of his ache for Aggie. Gods, what he wouldn't give for Hawke to come to him! His world felt _wrong_ without her. Why did he have to run from her? Why did he have to be such a git? Because of his cowardice, Fenris and Hawke were two separate entities now. Strangers.

Everything seemed torturous without her presence, such as studying. Reading without Hawke hurt. Physically hurt. Caused a stiff volt of melancholy to pulse throughout Fen's chest. How desperately he _yearned _for her to hover over him while he, once again, buggered up another word. _Needed_ Hawke to be inches from his tall form, if only so he could inhale the pure scent of her. Truly, Fenris had only been learning thanks to Agnes's passion and closeness. He had only been living thanks to her love.

_My dearest lady, how you haunt me so, _thought Fenris. Quivering, Fen flexed his muscles stunned at the steady pulsation of his tattoos. The ink hummed softly. It was a pleasant feeling, so unlike the fiery response he was used to from the lyrium. Indeed, Hawke was a miracle personified. Without raising a finger, the mere memory of the woman had transformed a branding of evil into lines of pure pleasure. She was Fenris's angel. Thanks to her, the once surly runaway had awoken out of his bland existence.

Hawke had enlarged Fenris's surroundings, gifting him with color and vibrancy and music. She had awakened his once slumbering spirit; fanned the flames of a wolfish heart. Presently, however, there was nothing between them. Their separation was slowly, but surely, draining all the beauty out of Fenris's reality. All of Thedas was becoming muted again. Gray. A soundless nothingness. All that remained was Agnes' scarf.

No, the cloth no longer smelled of honey and cedar like she did. Nor did it shine as brightly as it used to. It was worn down. It's edges frayed. Coloring dulled. Yet, it was still _something_ of the lady's. Torn from the robe Hawke had worn the last evening Fenris had seen her, worshipped her and left her. _I wonder Hawke, do you even notice the favor I keep?_

Wrapping the stolen sash around his right wrist, Fenris crawled into his bed. The room was as silent as ever. No sound intruded on the elf's surroundings. Nothing but Fen's own movements disturbed the unwelcome peace of the estate. Swallowing, Fenris felt his breath hitching in his throat. He was willing himself not to dwell on his favorite apostate. The lack of Hawke was already alarming, no reason to obsess over it. What could Fenris do about it anyway? His enansal, his love loathed him. He was sure of it.

Nevermore would his lady fair unexpectedly arrive. Nevermore would she confide in him, or reach for him unconsciously in the afterglow of a fight. The gulf between them seemed un-crossable. It would take the Maker Himself to undo the treacherous damage Fenris had caused.

Sighing into his pillow, Fenris turned onto his side. It was too hot for covers tonight. Much too hot. Though. . . if _she_ were beside him, he would gladly reach for her body heat. He would wrap himself around her like a sheath, never letting his beloved go for the world. Hawke would be trapped within his embrace as strongly as Hawke had embedded herself in Fenris's soul. "Come back to me Hawke," Fenris muttered. "Come back to me." But, just as Fenris knew, no reply came. Only the silence persisted. Only the absence of Hawke remained. They were finished. Done. And with that sad knowledge, Fenris drifted off into a fitful sleep. His dreams even devoid of Hawke's pretty face.

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><p><strong>Enansal<strong> (_en-AHN-sahl_): gift or blessing.


	4. Reassurance

When your heart breaks, it doesn't break evenly. There is no perfect split. Not ever. Precision isn't congruent to heartbreak. Instead, the heart fractures in multiple sickening pieces. Cuts, abrasions and fissures blossom throughout the tissue, causing your chest to constrict in agony and in pain. Blood continues to pump, but much too slowly for any living thing to function properly. You begin to feel colder. The winter chill of the equinox takes a firm hold of your senses, making you stumble about, weakened and afraid. You have become the damned. You are as good as dead.

Hawke knew these sensations well. She herself was a newly discarded woman. The weight of having been used transforming her usual blithe spirit into a hardened one. Nothing about her felt _right_ anymore. Her steps were rigid, her pallor ashen no matter what the heat of the day and her bones felt knotted, swollen, like the bones of the old. Then there was the numbness, this clouded apathy which pursued her whichever way she went. Life swirled around Aggie in gusts of movement and laughter and fluidity she no longer registered. She was _of _the world, but not _apart_ of it.

Her half-life existence began the minute Fenris had shuddered away from her touch. As if Hawke's exposed body suddenly revolted him. Her sheets weren't even cool when he had departed. They were still glistening from the slick sweat of love making when he dispassionately exclaimed, " It's too much. _This_ is too much. We moved too quickly, and I cannot do this." Hawke had then tried to convince Fenris otherwise. She had passionately made her case, stating that she _knew _without **question **that she could carry his burdens as easily as she carried him in the center of herself. Her devotion ran that deep, deeper than any veins of oar or gold. Certainly he hadto see that?

" I can help you," Agnes urged. " You don't have to struggle because. . . because I love you." Afterwards, she would recall how she had moved to embrace him, arms wide as birds wings, only to end up hugging air. Fenris had had no desire to be comforted, least of all by her. It had all been so _cruel_. With each step she had taken, the elf flew ever closer to the door. His answer had been simple enough. He had whispered, " forgive me" and fled.

Days passed in shimmering waves after Fenris departed, melding together in careless clarity. Hawke would always remember those slipstream days. These were the dawns which drenched her in regret and shame. These were the nights that raged within her, echoing sadness. This was the space allotted to mourn lost love, along with a lost sense of self. For really, who was she if she wasn't his beloved?

To save herself from the prying eyes of others, Aggie chose to remain hidden. She stayed inside her room, wishing to see no one and no one to see her. She had cried hot ugly tears into her pillowcase, cursing his name in-between muffled sobs. How could he just abandon her like this? Why? And why did he have to use her? His callous actions baffled Agnes, yet nothing hurt her more than how damn noble he had acted while leaving. That the mere gesture itself was some absurd gentlemanly act, like a knight falling upon the hilt of his sword. By deserting her, Fenris had somehow believed he was preserving Hawke's chastity or some other daft attribute. Such thoughts vexed Hawke. Wasn't she capable of making her own choices? And she **had **chosen. She had chosen him.

Other moments found Aggie reminiscing about Fenris. The conversations they had shared by firelight or the sheer joy she felt as he read to her, his voice cracking uncertainly over new words flooded Agnes' senses. Maker, she missed him. Missed him terribly. And oh! Oh, how he had melted into her! His lean body shrouding hers in such tenderness. The warmth of his breath tickling her ear felt heavenly. His lanky arms drawing careful circles between her shoulders had tickled, sending sharp waves of pleasure down the arch of her back. Yes, and that gaze of his. . .that disarming gaze. . . .

Fenris's eyes had glowed a bright emerald green, once their lips had separated from their first bout of kissing. The irises had expanded in pure adoration at the sight of Hawke. It had enraptured the lady, consuming her entirely. It had been **the **"look." The look shared between two lovers who have found their truest homes in the presence of the other. No man other than Fenris had stared at Agnes in such an intoxicating way. No one. Not even Anders, whose puppy dog blues sometimes trailed her longingly when he thought his fellow mage wasn't looking. No, this gaze. . .this was a gaze of passion and heat and sacred promises.

Then there was that missing sash of Aggie's . . . . The fabric having been ripped from her favorite robe around the same time Fenris had left her. Originally, Agnes had thought she had been careless, simply snagging the piece of cloth on one of her midnight excursions to the kitchens, but the woman guessed differently now. The other day, Hawke had glimpsed Fen at the markets. The elf had been standing near a small tent dedicated to weapons. He had been discussing the quality of some used daggers to a shop keeper and, distractedly, had raised his right hand revealing a red sash wrapped around his right wrist. Hawke had almost lost her breath at the sight. That sash. . .it _had _to be. . . . There was no mistaking that cloth, for it was hers.

Pulse quickening, the mage sought out the Wounded Coast to think. As the sea breeze whipped across her cheeks, Hawke couldn't help but smile at the sight of Fenris wearing her sash. Pained though she was, the woman felt some of her heart's broken pieces begin to mend themselves back together again. Hawke had acquired a flame of hope in the form of a torn silken cloth. She had regained a tiny sliver of her spirit; reclaimed an ounce of her sanity. Fenris's newest accessory proved that he mourned her. It was a testament to his ardor; a silent recognition that he had found their collision beautiful. It spoke the words, " I love you too," when Fenris could not.

This crimson token catered to Hawke's optimism. Fenris might return to her someday. Maker, help her, but he might return. The door to their relationship wasn't completely closed afterall, nor were the locks completely bolted. There was still time: the keys to their futures had not yet been exchanged for other possibilities. Such an epiphany lifted Agnes a bit, causing her current reality to seem somewhat more bearable. A _perhaps _was on the table, a great perhaps that lead to reconciliations and a young lass's faith in love restored. Hawke could be brought back from the dead.

She had time (_they _had time) to reassess themselves, which was all the miracle Aggie needed to carry on. The only miracle anybody needs for that matter. Time, Hawke realized, can heal all wounds, and can mend all ailments. Even she, along with her mangled heart, could (and would) be whole again. Resurrection stones were not even needed for this bit of magic. Oh, no. Only the rejuvenating sands of time could save Agnes. Only time, and the resilience of the human heart, no matter how fragmented it may be, for love can conquer all. It just takes hope; it only takes time.


	5. Awkward

Maker help her, but Aveline was driving her bloody mad. All this running around and for what? Because the woman was too afraid to approach the object of her affections, Guardsman Donnic. What made the whole scenario that much more unbearable was _his_ presence.

It had been months (although it had felt like decades) since Hawke had asked Fenris to accompany her around town, and when she decides to Aveline frustratingly appoints her Cupid "cherub of love". How wonderfully _ironic_. How absolutely _brilliant_. _What's worse is he hasn't said a single word to me or even given me eye contact all day, _mused Hawke.

Instead Fenris had remained quiet as a church mouse. No, he wasn't that much of a talker to begin with, but never before had remained so. . .so withdrawn. His voice would barely answer above a whisper when the others spoke to him. She wondered if Fenris didn't want her to hear his words at all.

_What possessed me to seek him out? _She knew the answer to this question already though. It had been her longing for him; the need to see his face for however brief a moment prevailed over her need to avoid him.

The young lady still found it amazing that her feet somehow directed her towards his residence. What had been even more shocking was how quickly Fenris had opened his door for her. Typically, one would have to knock _then_ enter at their leisure when visiting him. Not today however.

Hawke supposed that this must've been the first day in _history_ that Fenris's doors had opened in such a rush. She also supposed that it was the first day he had _ever _greeted her while she stood on the threshold of his estate. Laughing to herself Hawke recalled what Varric had said about the whole thing. _He'd mentioned how the Maker Himself must've given Fenris wings since their last meeting because the elf only ever seemed to move at one pace, " depressingly slow," _and Hawke grinned at the thought.

The pleasantries between them had been kept to a minimum. Mostly the conversation had to be prompted by both Merrill and Varric. Both companions felt it was their duty to keep both parties civil (as well as talkative). Their interference proved effective for Hawke eventually asked Fenris if he would like to follow her once again, and the elf had accepted.

What made the mage blush was the image of Fenris slightly _stuttering_ his response. It had caused Hawke's heart to flutter in surprise. Now. . .now that damnable organ within her chest merely ached. If only she could find a way out of this mess? Presently, she was up to her neck in it and Fenris had witnessed it all.

He solemnly followed her around Viscount's Keep as Hawke awkwardly played matchmaker. He watched as noiseless as a golem when she delivered that ridiculous coin to Donnic. He snorted as she posted Aveline's work schedule for the guardsman then restlessly shifted when her favorite (now least favorite) Captain of the Guard commented on their relationship. Then, after remaining such a passive aggressive participant through out the whole ordeal, Fenris says how he'll join Varric, Merrill, and Aveline later that night at the Hangedman. Truly, Hawke was being punished.

_I swear, I'll turn Aveline into a slimy __**warty**__ toad if she doesn't show tonight! Or maybe I'll get lucky and discover a potion that'll make me completely disappear? _Lady Hawke sighed in the end. She accepted that there was no way she could get that lucky; she also knew how she could never hurt Aveline (or any of her friend's) in any way, no matter how much she wanted to. She supposed there was only one thing left for her to do and that was to accept the inevitable.

Tonight she would play the part of yenta as she wooed Donnic for her red-headed friend, while trying desperately to ignore her ex-lover observing her in the shadows. If anything the evening's events would make a great story for Varric and a mortifying tale for her. Hawke just hoped she could live through it without dying from embarrassment, but she figured that would be too much to ask for. Instead, she assumed she'd simply end up dying from the sheer absurdity of it all (that or get piss pot drunk from her humilation). Either way, _he'd_ be there, watching and waiting for her eventual fall from grace; waiting for her to fail in his expectations of her once again.


	6. Admission

*** I just wanted to say thank you to everyone for reviewing and supporting this story. I really appreciate it! Thanks guys. =) **

He despised the guard commander's ineptitude at romance. Hadn't the woman been married once before? Shouldn't she be familiar with the rituals of courtship? Apparently, nothing from her past had stuck with her; Aveline couldn't even muster up the courage to approach the man she cared for herself. No, Hawke was to be her errand girl in this matter. Fenris grimaced. He longed to shake some sense into Aveline because she was allowing her fears to cloud her better judgment. Love and happiness were fleeting after all. He knew that universal truth all too well.

Once Fenris had held the world in his arms, only to lose it hours later. It was the woman he had loved. _Still_ loved. Now that woman would be forever apart from him; always in his heart but never again as his lover. The Lady Hawke ruled the corridors of his spirit, flooded the spaces of his mind, and consumed his entire being. She was his muse. She was his everything. . . .

Currently said muse was sitting awkwardly across from Donnic. He noticed how tense she was. Hawke's left foot tapped impatiently underneath the table she sat at. _She never could sit still when agitated, _Fenris mused. It made the elf grin in spite of his frustration.

The fiery Aveline could not be found anywhere. _Probably hiding in Varric's room. Making excuses for her cowardice no doubt. _Fenris pondered if he should go grab Aveline and make her confront Donnic? He also considered taking Hawke over his shoulder and out of the Hangedman, so he could rescue her from any more "small talk." Her exchange with this Donnic character wasn't going very well. It was even making Merrill uncomfortable (which, considering the source, was hard to do).

Peeved at Hawke's current situation, Fenris downed another whiskey. He needed to ease the tension building within his stomach; it felt as if he was about to spew fire he was so disgruntled. Suddenly Donnic left. It served that hard headed Aveline right.

Fenris almost went to her, but stopped himself. He knew he'd be the last person she'd want to see, besides her red headed friend. If only he hadn't of run all those months ago. . . .

Nevertheless, his desire to comfort her, entangle his fingers in her hair, and kiss away any and all distress on Hawke's face eclipsed his reasoning to stay away. He _would_ join her even if it would upset her. Mustering up as much confidence as he possessed, Fenris made his way to Hawke's table. He would let her know that he was here for her in any way she needed him to be. He was even going to swallow his pride for her. If only an anxious Aveline hadn't of beaten him to his destination. . . . .

There the love sick woman stood, lamenting about her situation. It made the former Tevinter slave wish to slit her throat. Instead, Fenris simply listened as Aveline explained why she skipped her "date." It was, again, her fear of the unknown which did her in. Would he say yes to her? Or would he immediately refuse her? Aveline couldn't bare to know, so she hid from Donnic to save herself the trouble of finding out.

Such an admission disgusted Fenris. It was more than the elf could stomach. He had to leave the Hangedman and this ridiculous woman, before he did something rash. He figured stopping Aveline's heart (no matter how pathetic the organ was) would only end badly for him.

Unwilling to pay heed to anything else the guard captain had to say, Fenris bolted for the door. Hawke shouted after him, but all Fenris could do was look past her to Aveline. He found himself shouting, " You've courted this man with a fear reserved for dragons! You, my lady, are wasting precious time frightened of Donnic instead of facing him. You are a coward much like myself. You squander happiness as if it were nothing. Tell him or do not, I no longer care, just keep me out of it Aveline! This dance of yours grows tiresome."

With this announcement made Fenris retreated to the sanctuary of his home. The taste of his mouth was sour; he figured it was regret that he savored. There would be no sleep for him that night but he wasn't alone in his insomnia, for his beloved remained awake as well. She too would be tossing and turning within her bed, confusion keeping her tired eyes awake.


	7. Misery

It had been two days since his ridiculous rant at the Hangedman. Two _excruciating _days. And what had Fenris accomplished in that time? Nothing really. Sure, he _had_ managed to drink himself silly and, _yes_, he had progressively destroyed most of the furniture with his broad sword, but neither activity seemed worthy of praise. It was more like Fenris was acting the spoiled child; secluded within his room he raved out of anger and frustration, while everyone else ignored his tantrum. No one came to visit. He sourly thought no one would again.

It was ironic, wasn't it? Just when Hawke was ready to welcome him back into her inner circle, he verbally assaults her best friend, which, ostracizes him once more. If Fenris was in a particularly masochistic mood he might have found that a tad funny. As it was, the joke was lost on him. His plight wasn't at all amusing; in fact, it was decidedly depressing.

The elf morosely surmised that his relationship with Hawke was to be unsalvageable; that any future between himself and her could no longer flourish because he had extinguished all hope for one. Fenris had damned himself by succeeding in alienating himself from the one person he needed most-Hawke.

Such knowledge made his entire being feel heavy, broken, and numb. The silver strips of lyrium even throbbed to the beat of his own sadness. Each thought of her caused his tattoos to ripple in distress. Cool beads of sweat cascaded down Fenris's back, becoming a second skin.

The pain of this evening tripled that of what Fenris had felt when he'd denied her happiness many moons ago. The anguish he had felt then had been insurmountable, but this. . .this was far worse. Leaving her naked, alone, and fragile had brought him to his knees; realizing that he would _never_ be able to repent for his sins against her rocked him to his very core.

It was truly _unbelievable_ how absolutely _abysmal_ he felt. Shaking his silver mane two and fro, Fenris desperately tried to find some sort of peace from his torment. Instead, the frantic motion made his head swim and his belly growl in disapproval. Unable to think of any solution to his plight, the lithe warrior decided to do what he did best: brood. He lit a fire, downed more wine, and wreaked further damage to his estate. Did such behavior grant him any solace? No. Did it tire him out so sleep could take him? Yes. It was a small comfort really.

If only until the break of day _she_ would be there to heal his wounds and nurse his soul, and they could be together as they used to be. They could be comrades, friends, and lovers as opposed to enemies, strangers, and rivals. Indeed, they were together in his fantasies which Fenris longed for in his reality, but had sadly squandered.

Too bad he couldn't make his dreams real, for if he could, he would. He'd do it in a heartbeat. He'd accept a world where Hawke could forgive him for good, and they could be as they once were: two halves of the same whole.


	8. Vexation

*** Just wanted to thank both Shacary and Kias for their reviews, as well as all my other readers who've favorited/alerted this story. Your support means a lot! Now, on to the next chapter. . . . Enjoy! **

Normally, Hawke did not relish the heat of battle; she disliked using her strong connection to the fade against others. Whenever she used her magic it was of the creation variety for that branch of enchantment helped mankind, and displayed the positives of being a mage. Lighting people on fire, well, _that_ was another matter entirely. _That_ was destructive magic and (in Hawke's opinion) was always dangerous when being commanded by the wrong kind of person.

Magic should always be used to aid man _not_ harm man. Her father had taught both she and Bethany that philosophy, and it was one Hawke tried to follow to the letter. The lady even preferred using her sword in close combat if she was able to. Mostly, Hawke only summoned the "powers that be" to aid her companions whenever the party was in dire straits. She never wanted to use her gift to harm others for that was what magic was: a gift from the Maker Himself. It felt wrong to use it in any way other than to help others.

Today, however, the lady was finding her father's advice rather hard to follow. She was getting a perverse satisfaction whenever she electrocuted her foes with tendrils of lightening or crushed them beneath the weight of telekinetic energy. She supposed it had something to do with Fenris. He had once again thrown Hawke for a loop with his behavior.

She was so frustrated with him! How dare he announce to the _entire_ Hangedman their personal business! Sure, he _hadn't_ mentioned her by name, but he didn't have to do that now did he? It was no secret what had passed between them. Get Isabela drunk enough (granted, it does take some time) and she'll get the loosest lips around. Not one of her friends' better qualities.

Hawke sighed. If people hadn't been gossiping about she and Fenris before, they were certainly doing so now. Such thoughts made the mage grimace; it also made her angrier, which, in turn, made her magic that much more potent. In no time flat, more slavers fell to their doom under the chill of ice and the heat of flame.

It would seem Hawke was making a fine killing at The Wounded Coast. Aveline's "romantic" patrol with Donnic would go uninterrupted at this rate. _At least someone's going to get a happy ending if said someone would _**stop**_ cocking things up, _Hawke snorted to herself. Poor Aveline wasn't doing too well on her own out there. Her attempts at small talk were excruciating to hear; in fact, Hawke was finding it miraculous that Aveline had _ever _managed to snag herself a husband back in Ferelden. _I guess Wesley didn't mind her lack of social skills. . . . _

Hawke closed her eyes to clear her thoughts momentarily. If it wasn't Aveline she was thinking of it was her one time lover, and Hawke did _not_ want think of him anymore than she already had. Ha! Who was she kidding? All she had been doing lately was think of him. . .even before his idiotic announcement at the pub. It seemed she could not escape his fearsome green eyed gaze; indeed, whether present or absent, Hawke never felt beyond Fenris's notice. Wherever she was, Hawke couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't too far away from her. . . .

Somehow the weary lady found herself lighting the last of the signal fires. Beside her stood Varric, Merrill, and Anders. Since Fenris declared to the Maker and everybody that he _didn't_ want to help in Aveline's "ridiculous crusade," Hawke approached Anders for the job. The one time warden had gladly accepted, but not before he called Fenris a "twat," which had both amused and annoyed Hawke at the time.

What did _not_ amuse Hawke in the _slightest _was how quickly Aveline and Donnic were before her. In an instant they appeared out of the mists of the cove, startling Merrill, which had then caused _both_ Anders and Varric to burst out laughing. All Hawke could do amidst such confusion was force a smile; internally, she was damning her companions' inability to remain quiet, which was something Fenris always knew how to do well. The elf only ever spoke when he felt what he had to say was prudent, necessary, and forthright. It was one of the reason's Hawke love. . .no _liked _him.

Now, here she stood, witnessing absurdity at its best. Too many people were speaking at once; Donnic, bless him, remained stoned faced through it all. His Guard Captain, however, was too talkative for her own good. Her attempt at feigning surprise was ill met. Donnic wanted answers which Hawke found herself happy all too give.

It was as if Hawke felt it her rightful duty (and perhaps reward) to do so, for it was _Aveline_ who had requested her help to begin with. It was _Aveline_ who threw her into this mess without so much as a "thank you." Not to mention, that it was also her friend's fault that she and Fenris were once again at odds. Such knowledge left Hawke feeling bitter towards her closest comrade; it also made her hate herself for such pettiness.

As the sun began to set across the bay, Hawke swallowed her baser emotions, and tried to defend Aveline's misguided courtship methods. She thought Donnic blushed once or twice, but wasn't sure. (She hoped his bashfulness wasn't so much from embarrassment as it was from feeling flattered.) What the mage couldn't foresee was Varric being. . .well. . .Varric.

_Saying, "Let me draw a picture of where she would like to touch you," probably wasn't the way to handle this situation, _thought Hawke. The damage was done though. Donnic gave a curt good-bye, leaving a _very_ disgruntled Aveline. _Serves her right, _and by Hawke declaring that small statement to herself knew that she was no longer upset with Fenris. It vexed her, but also relieved her. Fenris (whether she liked it or not) was her voice of reason; he was her beacon amongst the uncertain tides, as well as her guiding light home. He was her everything.

When the dark magnificent blues of evening descended upon Kirkwall, Hawke yet again remained amongst the land of the living. Sleep could not overtake her. Instead, she replayed the events of the day through her mind, along with Fenris's perplexing admission at the Hangedman.

She supposed he might still like. . .no, _loved _her as she _knew_ she loved him. It wasn't an easy realization that he too cared for her, and yet wouldn't be with her. (In fact, it was bloody maddening!) It did, however, cause the lady to forget her anger and embrace forgiveness, for love was never easy was it? Especially when loving a wayward slave when you, yourself, was an apostate mage, and you both had friends as irksome as Aveline.

Hawke sighed. She supposed patience would be the only virtue which would help see her through these uncertain times (that and perhaps some blessings from Andraste herself.) Maker help her, but Hawke had never been the patient type! She only hoped she could learn how to be and quickly too. For now, she'd seek solace within the comfort of sleep; she'd retreat within the Fade which was the land of dreams, fantasy, and (for tonight) a world without vexation.


	9. Tears

*** Just wanted to give a quick shout out to Alskantiger and Amelia-Hawke for their reviews. Thanks guys for your kind words, support, and enthusasaim for this story. Hopefully, this next chapter is to your liking! **

He wasn't expecting any visitors. If he had then he would of tried to tidy up a bit. Thanks to his rampage a few nights ago, the mansion was in even more disrepair than usual. It appeared as if a hurricane had descended over Fenris's lodgings. Splintered wood, torn parchment, broken statues, and ripped curtains littered the floor; thick layers of dirt, grime, and dust covered every surface. In essence, the interior of his home looked absolutely chaotic.

His new guest didn't seem to mind though; apparently, Isabela had seen worse than Fenris's ill attempt at "re-decorating." She did, however, remark that the manor now was as "dingy as a prostitutes privates before, after, and during service." _How awful, _was all the elf could think. What was even more awful was Isabela's reason for visiting him.

With all the subtly of a Tevinter Magister demanding parlor tricks, the amber eyed pirate flatly asked why he hadn't gone to see Hawke. Before the bewildered Fenris could offer her a suitable reason (or rather excuse) Isabela began attacking his manhood, and then called him a "lily-livered dumb-ass" with the emotional capacity of a "retarded lemur." This barrage of insults of course didn't bode well with Fenris. It made him see red and as he was about to break his cool, calm and collected façade to cause bodily harm, Isabela stilled him with her voice; Fenris became stupified with her next words.

She said, "Hawke still loves you even after your bastard like behavior. Don't ask me why but she does. Personally, if it were up to me, I would've cut off your balls in a heartbeat as retribution for how much you made her cry. Hawke wouldn't let me though," and here Isabela laughed a dry cold laugh that stabbed at Fenris's ear drums like hot irons. A silence as heavy as an undertakers stare descended between the two; not a sound could be heard besides their raspy breathes (and Fenris was sure the quickened beating of his own heart.)

It was he that broke the spell of tension by turning his back on Isabela. All the lady did was curse then wearily whisper, " I swear, she cried so much that her tears could've formed entire oceans and I would know, for my home is the sea. And did you know? There was nothing any one of us could do to comfort her. . . ." Here the elf became motionless, those green orbs of his dimming with pain. Turning to face the window, to save himself from looking at Isabela, Fenris tried to focus on a tabby cat outside chasing a disgruntled pigeon. He failed miserably. He could still hear her voice.

Undeterred the rogue walked past Fenris, and knelt down to pick up a discarded piece of red cloth. She held it inside her rough hands gently as if it were as precious to her as some newly discovered treasure then, sighing, wrapped it around one of Fenris's bare wrists. Surprised by her actions he asked her why she had done this, but Isabela simply shook her head. Her response as she left him was, "Because you can give up on yourself, but not on Hawke. I won't stand for it. . .and I promised her. . .promised I'd knock some sense into you if I could. That's what I'm doing mate. Knocking some sense into that thick pig-headed skull of yours. Anyway, be happy its me and not Aveline to do it."

Once the door slammed signaling Isabela's departure, Fenris slumped down into his chair. He stared numbly at the red cloth. . .her red cloth. He did the one thing he hadn't done in years-he cried. With each silent tear drop, the sullen lovesick elf forged his own ocean; it was one churning with both woe and sorrow.


	10. Inspired

*** Thanks to Kias, Medusa Davenport, and LunarMeridia for their reviews! Thanks for all your support and encouraging words! Helps keep me going! **

The stars were twinkling outside of Hawke's open window. A light breeze tousled her brunette locks about her face. A low sigh escaped the mage's lips; once more sleep evaded her grasp. It didn't matter though. The lady had slept most of the day anyway. Catching a cold could do that to a girl.

Now, fully conscious, Hawke sat upright in her bed allowing her mind to wander. One thought that remained prevalent was how _unfortunate_ it was that her medicine did not cause drowsiness. Sure, the potion Anders had dropped off _had _helped abate the ferocity of Hawke's fever. It had _also_ dulled the aches, pains, and minor chills she'd been experiencing; in fact, it _even _allowed her to breathe clearer. What was lacking was its inability to knock her flat on her arse. The darkness of oblivion which could be found in sleep seemed irresistible to the irritated mage.

Shuddering, Hawke decided to conjure up a small ball of flames. She let the heat tickle her palms before she threw her fireball into the grate of her fireplace. _Just because I suffer from a cold doesn't mean I have to _**be **_cold, _mused the mage. Taking delight in the rhythmic dancing of the fire before her, Hawke began to feel safer. Almost like she did all those nights ago in his arms. . . .

Shaking herself out of her reverie, the bleary eyed apostate reached for a leather bound journal. Too tired to write about her day Hawke decided to compose her thoughts into a poem instead. So many were dedicated to him nowadays. . .and, knowing her heart, this bit of verse would be no different. Finding her strength she wrote,

_To say I hate him would be lying, _

_Even if he stole my glimmer of hope _

_Bringing winter frost in his wake-_

_Forever contorting thoughts of happiness. _

_No, I do not despise him. _

_The simple fact is I love to love him; _

_I need to need him lingering on my bones._

Suddenly becoming weary, Hawke dropped her feather quill onto her lap. Ink blots littered the newly used pages of her journal, yet her simple ballad remained untouched. Her penmanship elegant and refined, her lettering swooped across its canvas in alluring swirls. This (like all the rest) would be a small token of her affections for one who would never read it; a burst of inspiration amidst all the heartache.

Once more abed, the lady lay in deep contemplation. No longer was she mulling over her terrible luck at falling ill or bemoaning the fact that should could not sleep, instead Hawke felt herself dwelling on her lost lover. She wished he wasn't so far away from her; she felt so alone without him beside her. In the end, it was her poem that said it best, in one short stanza it illustrated her desire for him. The lady simply loved to love him, she needs to need him lingering on her bones. If she didn't then Hawke feared that the last bit of ardor inside of her would rot away, leaving nothing but anguish in its wake. Such a prospect did little to ease Hawke's deflated spirit. If anything, it only made her feel that much _more_ sickly.

She guessed it was how matters of the heart worked. She crinkled her brow, musing, _If it doesn't shatter your physical core then it wreaks havoc on your emotional state, which is why I'm awake while everyone else slumbers. _It was also this distress which harkened another fever to appear on her brow, cold sweats to soak her sheets, and her infuriating inability to rest to continue.

As dawns light began to creep up on Hawke, the lady (in due time) became listless and still. Her blue orbs remaining opened, Hawke had them glued to her chamber door; it was as if she were waiting for something or _someone _to visit her. No one came though.

Despite how much she willed Fenris to enter her bedroom, the elf managed to evade her silent pleas. All she wanted was for him to comfort her or at least see her while she was ill. Weren't they at least friends? Or perhaps he didn't think that any sort of connection (platonic or otherwise) could be salvageable between them?

Releasing one last frusterated sneeze, the young woman finally shut her eyes. She would not sleep, but perhaps she could find peace in her cognizant state? It was simple really, she would focus on their better moments; she'd wrap herself in a blanket of cherised memories including herself and him. She couldn't help it honestly. Lady Hawke loved to love him and it was as clear as the sun light which now illuminated her face, and signalled the beginnings of a new day.


	11. Love

*** A quick shout-out to Abess Aruba Skytalon and ProsePoetry for taking the time to review my story. Thanks guys! I always love real constructive criticism as well as words of encouragement. You both rock! Now, back to the story. . . . . **

It was easier to live without love. Anger, bitterness, and cynicism were familiar emotions that Fenris knew how to deal with. Love. . .love, however, was bizarre to Fenris. It was so _complex_. Sometimes it sent him into a euphoric state; in moments of hope his heart would soar to great heights as he'd nurse the idea of reconciling with his beloved. This only happened when Fenris was drunk though. _Very _drunk.

Once the alcohol wore off, loneliness and despair would rear their ugly heads. Reality would punch Fenris in the stomach as a life of happiness alongside Hawke disappeared before his aching eyes. Love (a cruel mistress) often offered nothing more for the elf but extreme agony. Maker, how he wished he could will it away! If he could rip out his own heart he would in an instant. This pain he felt from love was cruel (crueler than any torment Danarius or Hadriana had ever placed on him).

It amused him to think that he had ever _ached_ for such a curse. When still Danarius's dog, Fenris had yearned for love to engulf him. It looked beautiful, exotic, and divine to the abused elf. He assumed that such an intense feeling for someone else and them for you could help a man endure anything even slavery.

How he would envy those he saw in the throes of love. Be it magister or slave, whenever he crossed paths with lovers his heart would tighten at the way they would look at each other or embrace. It was a type of happiness Fenris supposed he'd never get to experience then he broke away from his master and _she _happened.

Hawke had invaded the chambers of his heart with her warm smile, kind nature, and grace. She remained ever humble and optimistic while carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. She was _extraordinary_. A true woman of beauty, wit, and strength if there ever was one.

This mage (of all things) embodied all of man's better qualities. She was like something out of the fade itself. No, not the fade but paradise. Hawke was an angel; a handmaiden for the Maker himself who for some inexplicable reason loved him. Such knowledge broke Fenris in two, for he ruined that love by walking away from her.

Those damn memories had flooded his vision. It caused his body to become afflicted with unimaginable pain; the silver lyrium veins pulsed and burned his flesh like bitter acid. He had lost control of himself. It horrified him. To not be aware of anything but such suffering while your body did Maker knew what shook Fenris to his very core. He justified leaving her by believing he had done it for her own good. Now it seemed he had only done it for _his_ own good.

When feeling especially brooding Fenris pondered his own manhood. Truly, a man worthy of such a woman wouldn't have turned his back on her? He would have stayed; he would have faced his demons with his lady fair by his side. If he bled, it would be in front of her. Unflinchingly such a man would bare his past and all of his secrets for his love to see. He'd make her witness his redemption and such a woman (Hawke) would act as his guiding light. Their love would only grow wouldn't it?

Instead he fled. Fenris had turned his back on ever being her heroic admired one. He had chosen the easy route and decided to face his demons alone, for that was simpler than involving another. Convincing himself he had left to protect her from any unnecessary pain that his memories might cause her was daft. He knew that months later. Hell, Isabela had even known that; basically called him out on it during her last visit. Fenris ever the lone wolf ever the warrior was a _coward_. He was still nothing but a lowly slave.

_A filthy slave, _he would mutter. Unworthy of any real affection, let alone affection from someone as superior as Hawke. He wondered if she had realized this herself? _Probably. That is why no one visits and no messages are relayed. She knows I'm worthless to her. . . ._and, like clockwork, Fenris would turn to his ale or wine for comfort. After plunging himself deeper into his despondency, there seemed to be no cure for it other than intoxication. Better to be smashed from booze than to feel the quick sting and swift retribution of love.

Dulled senses softened the blow, at least until morning when, again, sunshine would bring about reality and reality would bring about a lesser existence, one without _her_. Sure, the love for her remained, but with it brought sadness at the loss of her, and that sadness was all Fenris would ever know. It was all a slave like him deserved; it was all a coward like him should ever know. He was nothing after all, just a dirty filthy elf living in an abandoned mansion. A lone wolf destined to move through life loveless and alone, without the companionship of his sweet lady hawke for company. Without her. Always without her. . . .


	12. Thoughtful

Lately, Hawke found herself spending much of her time in contemplation. A solitary figure amongst the lush vegetation of her garden, she'd sit, and she'd think. Sometimes the lady would do this more than twice a day; sometimes she avoided her mediation spot with a passion, as if it were the blight itself. Today was not one of those days.

Journal in hand, the mage chronicled her adventures on paper while the birds chirped and the honey bees buzzed. Retelling her exploits served as a release to Hawke. She swore the words she committed to paper burned the page. As if the tales themselves had life all their own. It lightened the load a bit for her. Only a bit though.

What weighed heaviest the most was the young woman's passion for another. A love once requited but now silenced, and thrust aside. Hawke told herself that patience was her only recourse; that if she forced Fenris by her side she'd be no better than Danarius.

It hurt that he hadn't left his mansion. She had sent countless invitations to his door, but he never answered. Hawke was beginning to think her friends never delivered her messages to him. That even her trusty dwarf Bodahn were withholding her letters. Or, maybe, Fenris chose to ignore her entreaties. Such ideas caused Hawke's chest to tighten and her blue eyes to swim with tears.

Behavior unfit for a lady, or so she'd guess that's what her mother would say. Of course Hawke wasn't an ordinary lady by any means. Maker help her if she was! The mage highly doubted she'd last long living a stuffy life in court. It was her destiny to cast spells, experience intrigue, and to apparently get her heartbroken. (That last part the less glamorous of the three).

_I'm no true heroine though_, Hawke would sigh. True women, true heroines, did not moon over men who did not love them in return. Although, she thought her man might still care for her. . .yet he wasn't by her side. Not even in combat anymore. No, real ladies of depth and strength ignored such girlish notions. But, then again, Hawke wasn't a true heroine was she? Her heart, instead of being made of resilient stone, was a construct of mush and scar tissue.

This loving proved to be tiring for the young woman. It made her weak, unsteady, and unfocused. Visions of his rare smile or memories of his soft cooing laughter haunted the corridors of Hawke's mind. It all left her so damn hollow.

Instead, the mage should be within the confines of her room or library. She should not be in her garden, writing, reminiscing, and thinking about her wayward elf. Hawke knew she should be using this precious time to research those evil tomes Idunna had written her about.

As far as Hawke knew, those books were said to not only wake the dead, but also give the user the power to control people (much like the one time sorceress Idunna). The ex-witch also wrote that these tomes were volumes really, not books. Once all the volumes were together they would make up a work called the "Necronomicon." Even the name sent shivers down Hawke's spine.

Suddenly, a late breeze swept past the mage, knocking her out of her reverie. Hair all about her face, Hawke took a deep breath and wished for peace as well as commitment to her causes. No matter how much she yearned for the love of another, for Fenris, Hawke had to do what the elf had done and bury her feelings within herself. Deep inside they'd linger, only to be set free in moments of solitude; only to be given life within the leather bindings of her journal as words better left unspoken and unread, well, for the time being at least.


	13. Inimitable

Hawke had asked for him. _Needed _him. Numerous entreaties had been made on her behalf for the elf to visit her. She had _even _requested he accompany her on some quest. Such attention astounded Fenris.

How could Hawke _possibly _continue to care for one such as himself? Nothing she did made any sense to him. Fenris snorted, thinking back to something Varric had said about their leader. They had been drinking at the Hanged Man one evening; it was just the two of them and somehow Hawke had been mentioned. Over their pints the rouge began to expound on what he thought about their favorite mage.

"Women," Varric had begun, "Are in themselves a mystery; Hawke is _more_ than that. She's a damn enigma. A shadow within a shadow. The only thing a man can know for certain about Hawke is her heart. Strong as iron that organ while also being so damn big, and unyielding. Its like it never stops growing." The dwarf then had gone on to say how Hawke's affection was, "Something special to behold."

He said that Hawke wasn't your typical lady; she wasn't a creature of frivolity but one of earnestness whose heart was placed into everything, especially those she loved. Their fearless leader wasn't like any one Varric had ever met before. She was an unstoppable force that moved mountains for the things she believed in. He then said, "Imagine what she'd do for the man she chose to give that inimitable heart of hers to, eh Fenris?"

At the time of the question all Fenris had done was shrug and go back to his liquor, but now he had an answer. He thought, _She'd give you every last part of herself and ask for nothing in return. . .no matter how you repaid her for such devotion. _Even if your payment was that of cruelty or abandonment, the lady bird wouldn't stop caring for that whom she loved. . .like Fenris.

The elf grimaced. He had abused her with his coldness; he had distanced himself from her when he should've ran to her. He was a cad. A scoundrel. A roustabout. He was (no still _is_) undeserving of Hawke's perfect esteem.

Take this moment for instance: Here the elf sat, once more obsessing about his mistress, instead of being beside her. It was pathetic really. The lone wolf himself brought to his knees from regret, sorrow, and longing. Wasn't he supposed to be resilient as well as poised in the face of adversity? Wasn't he the stealer of hearts? An executioner of men? Wasn't he?

Fenris had a vendetta on his hands; this angry soul had no time for doubt or remorse to cloud his judgment. He had no need for the ardor he carried for another. He was a killer. Such men as himself were incapable of any gentleness. . .or should be incapable of it. When it came to Hawke all rationality flew out the window.

Fenris simply couldn't help himself. The female apostate (this incarnation of all he had ever despised) was all he had ever known of love; this sorceress with her spells and incantations was all he ever wanted. Despite the elf's best efforts, he could no more abandon his feelings for Hawke then he could abandon his need for revenge.

Still tied to his wrist, making the lyrium in his veins croon, was the favor Fenris had stolen from Hawke's room all those months ago. It was the red sash of Hawke's robe. The fabric tightly secured around Fenris's slight wrist was this swordsman's most prized possession. Glancing down at the fabric the glossy haired elf set his jaw into a thin line. He knew what he had to do. He had to see her.

The road to reconciliation would not be an easy one; in fact, it would surely pain Fenris to endure it. The young man knew of the torments he had put his lady fair through. They were many and they were cruel.

Would he be able to rekindle their romance? Certainly not. As much as he burned for her (as much as he would always love her) their relationship was best left as that of a business partnership. It was better than no relationship at all. Better to be by her side, quietly admiring her than making Hawke experience more pain and disappointment.

Loving him was wrong; loving her was forbidden. Frowning, the fatigued warrior moved in the direction of her estate. It was time to accept one of the lady's invitations and apologize for his actions. The wolf needed his pack, but more importantly he needed his leader. Fenris needed Hawke. Even if he could not accept her heart, he would gladly lay down his life for hers in the heat of battle. Ultimately, she was all that mattered.

The world, filled with its turmoil, needed someone like Hawke around to rattle its cages. She was a herald sent to spread the seeds of goodness and kindness and love. She was the antithesis to men like Danarius; she was Fenris's salvation. _But, I cannot give her the happiness she deserves. I am made of bitter spoiled flesh and an even darker spirit. I love her enough to let her go. . . _.

The elf figured his darkness would only weigh his beloved down. Sure, Fenris would continue to follow Hawke, ensure her safety, but he would no more openly show affection to her. Instead, Fenris would allow Hawke to fall for a more suitable match; he'd allow her to transfer her love to a man more deserving of it than he. It was the honorable thing to do and also the most heartbreaking, but that was Fenris's legacy wasn't it? His was a life ruled by agony, suffering, and revenge. Love. . .love could not flourish with him. If anything, love died with Fenris. Of this he was most certain.

As he rang the bell to her mansion his left arm twitched. He ignored it. But it was almost like the lyrium was pleading with him to turn around; it was the arm with the sash that began to burn. Fenris stepped inside anyway. The mistress was out. How fitting.

Sighing, the burnt out lover sat in the foyer upon a bench. Here he would wait. Here he would brood. Here he would apologize. Here he would plan to release her heart because he loved her. Here is where he would come full circle; here is where Fenris would be right back to where he started from, even more in love than before. Here is where he would accept her invitation, and here is where love would begin to beat anew. As Varric had said, "Hawke had an inimitable heart," and no one (not even a lone wolf like Fenris) could deny its siren call. The heart wants what the heart wants and hers wanted his just as much as his wanted hers.


	14. Confronted

*** To Abess Aruba Skytalon: Thanks for following my story and for leaving another review. It means a lot. Hope this chapter is to your liking! **

It had been absurdly late when Hawke entered the dark cool entryway of her home. She was tired. Dog tired. Her hair was a mess about her face, her blue eyes dull from exhaustion, and her robes covered in grime. All the lady wanted was a hot bath and perhaps a warm glass of milk to ease her into dreamland, but all Hawke got was an unexpected guest.

Seeing him, _there_, on the very bench he had occupied while waiting for her on that painful night almost sent Hawke reeling into a fit of panic. Was this some sort of trickery? A demon of the fade preying upon Hawke's deepest desires? When the elf spoke, Hawke pinched herself; the slight jolt of pain brought Hawke back to reality.

It took a moment to register what Fenris had said, but soon she got it. He was (as he put it) finally accepting one of her many entreaties to meet with her. All Hawke could do was gawk at him. Was he actually being serious? Why now? Why like this? _And why when I look like a darkspawn brood mother? What wonderful timing he has. . . . _

Trying to compose herself, Hawke smiled then asked Fenris if he'd come into her study to talk. The elf readily accepted, muttering something about, "resolving us" under his breath. _Wait, was it "us" or "this" that he said? _Hawke felt ill.

The conversation went smoothly enough; in fact, the mage snorted at how closely this resembled a business meeting. She almost felt like cracking wise, saying something like, "So I guess you can take the lover out of the elf, but not the fighter? Good to know. At least now, after all else has failed, I can still hire you out as a mercenary." However, such a remark stemmed from bitterness, so Hawke kept her mouth shut.

During their civil banter, the lady _swore _she saw cracks in Fenris's calm demeanor. It was almost as if Fenris was _nervous_. Sometimes, in the midst of a sentence, he stuttered and his cheeks faintly glowed pink. What also struck Hawke as odd was that those steely eyes of his rarely met her gaze. These little tics spoke volumes to the young woman. It made her hope that Fenris wasn't all business, and a part of him still cared about their relationship. That was why Hawke needed to silence his mouth from speaking anymore unnecessary garbage.

From where their tête-à-tête was headed, it appeared that all Fenris wanted to establish between them was a partnership. Hawke's stomach jolted. It wasn't fair. Frowning, the lady sighed then interrupted her guest's ongoing apologies for having ignored her and having behaved in an "unprofessional" manner. It was all too much to bare; Hawke felt like screaming, but decided to remain as composed as possible.

"By the way you ramble on Fenris, it seems you want nothing more than to erase any sort of closeness between us," Hawke mused. "Don't I have _any_ say in the matter?" She turned to her houseguest, her voice trembling. "Well, don't I?"

She saw him jump in his seat at her words. It appeared her outburst had startled him. _Good. Let it_, thought the mage. She wanted Fenris's undivided attention.

"Whether you like it or not, I care for you. Perhaps it doesn't fit into your future plans, but there it is. I even. . .I even love you. Still." At this exclamation, Fenris turned towards Hawke in shock. His eyes wide with unbelief or fear, the enchantress could not tell.

Leaning against a bookcase, allowing the dust of the shelves to pass into her lungs, Hawke continued her speech. Weary, she said, "I wish I didn't feel this way. It hurts too much; far too much for me to want to admit. You broke a piece of myself when you left me like you did. To not even grant me your friendship after such. . .such. . .cockery isn't right and you know it!"

"Cockery, Hawke?" Fenris whispered, a slight hint of amusement in his voice.

"Oh, don't patronize me! Its cockery alright? One of Isabella's many words to describe your distinct lack of chivalry, if you must know. My point being, if I may return to it," choked out Hawke, "Is that I have endured too much from you to only receive this sorry excuse for an apology."

Tears began cascading down the frustrated lady's cheek. Sniffling she whispered, "We should mean more to each other than this Fenris; I should mean more to you than someone you consider a "boss" or "leader" when you need a job thrown your way. I have earned your friendship and you know it! You _owe_ me more than _this_."

Freely crying, Hawke clenched her jaw. What was said was said. There was no more that she could do to convince Fenris of her feelings, as well as her wish to remain close. Her heart demanded some sort of balance; that if they could not be lovers then solidarity would have to take its place in order for the organ to live. It was all in his court now.

Turning to leave, Hawke felt strong hands grasp her shoulders. He spun her around and she faced him. The elf look pained. His grey orbs pools of discord. Abruptly, he shoved his right arm into her face. "Look," was all Fenris said.

Tattered, filthy, and smelling of sweat was a red sash wrapped around Fenris's lithe wrist. _Her _missing sash. A sad smile ghosted Hawke's lips. "I didn't notice it. I guess. . .I guess I figured you would have abandoned it by now."

"Obviously I haven't, have I Hawke?"

Stepping away from her, Fenris moved for the door. Before leaving he spoke. His lyrium veins slowly turning a bright silver. He said, "I'll see you tomorrow my lady. By the way you look, I'd say you could use my help hunting down those tomes you spoke of. As for what you said. . .I. . .I truly am sorry for causing you such grief. Hurting you. . .it was the last thing I ever wanted to do. I hope that you can forgive me someday. . . ."

Before Hawke could say anything, Fenris was gone. The door to her mansion slamming behind her visitor. Weary the woman trudged up the stairs to her room. Her mouth turned into a thin line. _If only he had stayed just awhile longer? _Shaking her head, Hawke drew hot water for her bath. As the tub was filled with buckets of water, the words "but I already have" repeated like an obscene parrot in Hawke's brain.

Groaning, the young woman pushed the words out of her head. For now, she'd dwell on cleaning herself up and tending to the cuts and bruises on her body then those that remained on her heart. It was all she could do at the moment; her guest was gone and so was her answer.


	15. Annoyance

Hunting after missing macabre tomes proved to be more of a nuisance than Fenris thought it would be (or should be). Not to mention Merrill's constant whining about destroying the infernal books truly wore on Fenris's patience. He desired nothing more than to torch Merrill along with such demonic literature. He even thought it fitting to allow the demons that protected these infernal books to simply cart Merrill off to the Fade with them. Would Andraste really disapprove of such a thing? One less blood mage in the world wouldn't be so bad, would it?

Grimacing, the frustrated warrior recalled his companions' recent tirade about their current mission. That daft girl sniveled on and on about how "useful" and "ancient" these tomes were; that annihilating such precious pieces of written knowledge was barbaric. Such an absolute obsession for the dark arts reminded Fenris of the Tevinter Imperium and its mania for demonic power. If it wasn't for Hawke's presence, well, Merrill would be in a world of hurt. _Such a naïve little witch would find herself bludgeoned to an inch of her useless life, _thought the brooding elf.

Hadn't Merrill learned anything from traveling beside Hawke? By the former keeper's actions, Fenris knew the answer to his own question. Ruefully smirking Fenris reflected on how his fellow teammate was a _clueless _git. An _absolutely_ hopeless _clueless_ git.

Before Merrill was a remarkable woman. More alike she than most. Hawke (much like her buffoonish elfin friend) was a fellow apostate. She too lost all that was familiar to her, and she too faced constant adversity. But did Hawke ever buckle beneath the strain of the hand she'd been dealt? No. Unlike Merrill blood magic was never an option.

This young mage never took the easy way out of anything (even when, maybe, she should have for the sake of her heart). Fenris knew that much. When last the two were alone the lady had managed to thwart Fenris's attempt at cooling their unspoken feelings for each other. In the process, she'd made the silver haired wolf of Tevinter more hers than ever before.

How could Merrill ignore such an influence? Perhaps it was the demon whispering within here ear that distorted her judgment? Or, perhaps, it was the mirror she constantly fixated over that drove her to such treacherous desires? The lanky warrior cared not for the answer. He only wanted the wide eyed mage to shut up.

Currently, it was Hawke speaking amongst the crew. Her voice was low, but Fenris heard each word she uttered as clear as day. Next they would travel to the Bone Pit. Apparently, she and Anders (that abomination) had deduced as much from various writings about this accursed Necronomicon they hunted. _How delightful_. _Yet again we walk into certain danger and on tormented land even. The Maker must have a warped sense of humor. _

Quickly glancing at Hawke, Fenris gave her one of his sardonic knowing expressions. The mage quirked a smile in response, her cheeks crimson in the firelight. Wanting nothing more than to lightly touch her, the elf tried to reach his left hand outwards towards her. . .then Merrill spoke again. All was chaos as one person began speaking over the other about the tomes.

In the end, Fenris walked home from the Hanged Man with a sense of loss about him. Another chance to get close to her, his love, was lost. Merrill could rot with her abominable demonic guide forever for all Fenris cared. Her naivety and her sheer disregard for others had caused one hell of a row between herself and Hawke. Not to mention it had taken Fenris all of his willpower not to murder the foolish witch.

Somehow, amidst the cacophony of voices, Hawke had managed to calm her elfin friend down. Fenris only balled his hands into fists while he witnessed Lady Hawke babying an indignant Merrill. It disgusted him.

Soon everyone dispersed the pub; each figure exiting Varric's apartment ragged and tired. Hawke left first with Merrill in tow. Fenris left last. He stayed behind until inebriated, retreating to his mansion only after his urge to physically harm Merrill had subsided.

Once more alone, the elf lit a fire. Thinking of white witches and enigmas, Fenris stayed awake till dawn shown through his murky windows. When the sunlight grazed the elf's steely eyes, Fenris sloppily strolled to his bed. He silently cursed his luck (as well as a certain harpy keeper reject) while he struggled to get comfortable. Just as the privilege of sleep began to overtake him, one word passed Fenris's lips. The word was, "Hawke."


	16. Emotional

The separation between them had seemed so strange to her. To once be so close to someone then to be so quickly cast aside bewildered Hawke. Despite her calm façade, inside the girl had been a wreak. In the evenings she had wailed like a banshee, wondering what she had done to make him pull away in revulsion. By morning her bed sheets were sticky with sweat; her pillows reeking of freshly strewn tear drops.

It was hard to keep such inner turmoil to one's self for long. Before the girl knew it, all of her traveling companions appeared to know of her heartbreak. This embarrassed Hawke to no end. To realize that you've been seen at your lowest by those you yearn respect from is a humiliating truth. Isabela had been one such friend.

After baring witness to one of the mage's many crying fit's the pirate had done something extraordinary. . . . She had cried _with _Hawke. This fearless woman had held Hawke close to her and stroked the apostate's light brunette (almost auburn hair) soothingly. With the ferial look of an outraged mother bear, Isabela had murmured how she'd gut Fenris the next time she'd see him. It was a moment that truly bonded the two together in friendship and in sisterhood.

Now, standing mere inches from the man who had so easily broken her left Hawke feeling hollow. Yes, she knew he was sorry; etched around his expressive eyes were worry lines that had not been there months ago. It was also in the way the brooding berserker addressed her. Fenris's voice always sounded pained whenever he managed to ask Hawke a question or state some opinion about one thing or another.

His lilting tone had drops of regret lining its every surface. She could hear it as easily as she could hear her own heartbeat escalate by the simple presence of him. It was enough to send Hawke crawling out of her own skin.

She had missed him though. Missed him more than anything. It was as if the loss of him had been another death for her to own. Where there were grave stones and shrines dedicated to long dead loved ones, there was nothing left of him for her to visit. He had disappeared into the darkness like a ghost into the ether. That bitter period of sorrow was one Hawke doubted she'd ever have the will to forget.

Silently worrying her lower lip (leaving light bite marks out of habit) the mage fiddled with her robes before another quest was to overtake them. She had to snap herself out of the past and into the present. They were on speaking terms again; the elf was at her side like she had yearned for him to be. No point in continuing to think about what had already passed, leaving brutal marks on the heart. She would save those memories for later. Better to release her sorrows within the pages of her journal while in the sanctuary of her bed chambers that evening. It would be the more prudent thing for her to do as a young lady (or so her mother would've said if she were still living).

What had to be done now was visit the Qunari. The Viscount had sent a messenger to Hawke in the wee hours of the morning. The note had said he, "Needed to see her urgently on a matter of great importance." Hawke had rolled her eyes at this. Wasn't everything considered a matter of great "importance" to this man? Yet she had made herself dress and resigned herself to playing errand girl again. Of course, this particular assignment of the Viscounts had truly proven significant because it wasn't from him. It was from the Arishok. The imposing leader of the stranded Qunari in Kirkwall had asked for Hawke by name.

About two hours later the mage was ready to face whatever the Arishok was ready to throw at her. There she stood, standing just outside the doorway to the foreboding Qunari settlement. Along for the meeting were Varric, Aveline and Fenris.

The bright eyed mage had brought Varric because he was savvy (a good people reader). Her longest friend, Aveline, had insisted she tag along. The fiery woman did _happen_ to be the Captain of the Guard. Plus, Hawke respected Aveline's keen mind. As for Fenris, well, he knew how to deal with these strange warriors from a distant land the best.

Tevinter and the Qun were constantly at war; each grappling for control of the land the Tevinter Imperium claimed to own. As a slave of the Imperium one can pick up a few things about one's adversaries. Not to mention the Arishok seemed to respect the elf.

What had the warlord said? Something about Fenris having the, " knowledge to know your place and to respect the Order of the Qun while surrounded by so much disorder." Even though the lady knew that this must have been meant as a compliment, it had somehow felt like a condescending chastisement from the figurehead. Whatever it was _meant _to be and actually _was _didn't matter. What mattered was Fenris would know what to say (and just how to say it) when Hawke faltered. The Arishok always made her nervous.

As the doors to the encampment were opened, without thinking, the scared trembling Hawke reached for Fenris's hand. His cold gauntlets tickled her skin. Looking wide eyed at him she began to pull away, but not before Fenris reassuringly squeezed her delicate palm.

Stupefied, Hawke's brain went numb. Was this was the same man who had cut her into cheap emotional shreds? The same one who had left her without any word for weeks and weeks on end? The same one who still has yet to apologize for his misconduct? While (and this was the clincher) he followed her around like a sick puppy dog? Yes, it was. Had to be. Surprisingly, Hawke found she no longer cared about any of that. Love is funny that way; forgiving perhaps what shouldn't be forgiven.

_I love you_, she thought. Weakly smiling, Hawke figured Fenris must hold the only working key to her heart. Indeed. This had to be true. For Hawke had wanted him by her side _not_ just for all he could do for her, but because of what he _was_ to her. It was absurd really how one firm grip of the hand could have such a profound effect on a love struck girl. But it did. By that simple gesture of Fenris's Hawke no longer felt weak kneed at the prospect of facing the unknown. She felt strong; she felt capable of taking on any task (even one from the Qunari).

With the dignity of a Queen, the gangly mage marched into the depths of the Qunari campsite. The knowledge that her silver haired knight was with her gave her all the strength she needed. Hawke even bowed to the Arishok without any hesitation. She was ready for him. Poised for the Arishok's booming voice to engulf her, and his orders to be given, she stared straight into his eyes like a proud sentinel. The feel of Fenris's fingertips ignited a fire deep within her soul. This made Hawke's emotions sing in anticipation instead of trepidation. It truly was all so strange.


End file.
